


FAULT

by TheLexFiles



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, I fell into the Joan/Jianna hell pit and needed an outlet, Multi Chapter, Pregnancy, i'm also being a little inspired by Prisoner in my depictions of Blackmoore so let me live, is it blackmoor or blackmoore we will never know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-28 08:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12602948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/pseuds/TheLexFiles
Summary: There’s no one to return to, no going back. Jianna Riley’s lead feet lend themselves to following orders out of fear of the unknown.Into the prison, she walks.





	1. Enter Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this project in mind for some time. This will be my first lengthy multi-chapter fanfiction in years, but I have an end goal in mind. I find even the smallest flashbacks and details of Joan's history with Jianna to be fascinating, with plenty of room to explore and create headcanon to fill the gaps. 
> 
> Enjoy.

_Blackmoore Prison_ , May 1999  


Fear is perceptible to the human eye.

Under duress, new women – fresh meat – fall in line through processing and administration. One by one, they are taken to strip search rooms under watchful eyes of solemn guards stood in the shadows.

“Riley.”

The sharp roll call draws Jianna’s attention from her basket of items to the guard before the door. She’s signalled to proceed, and she hesitates.

“You’re next. Hurry up.”

Her feet feel like lead. She passes the threshold one clunky step after another, and feels her gut sink. Two women officers stand shoulder to shoulder, one substantially taller than her fellow guard.

_Joan Ferguson  
Deputy Governor_

The name badge glints under the single hanging light in the room. Jianna swallows the thick bile in the back of her throat. Lately, she’s felt nothing but sick, though her arrest and sentencing have done nothing to ease her mind or body.

“Strip your clothes, Riley. The quicker you get through this, the easier,” The smaller of the two women speaks plainly, droning on. The lines in her face are deep; she has seen the worst humanity has to offer its women, yet she persists. The steady hours keep her out of house and home.

Jianna’s shaky breath fills the expected silence; warm, brown eyes look between the frigid officers. The older woman sighs through her nose.

Granite eyes meet hers; a fleeting smile flickers like the light above.

“It’s alright. First time’s the hardest.”

It isn’t what Jianna expects to hear from an officer, let alone the _Deputy Governor_. Her voice is surprisingly soft, a low tenor that resonates against the dark grey walls. Jianna lets her stare linger; maybe, the screws aren’t as bad as they say.

Slowly, she begins to peel the layers away, exposes herself to the wolves.

She sheds the skin of her old life, and replaces it with yellow plaid and denim – yet another face in a sea of hundreds of women.

There’s no one to return to, no going back. Jianna Riley’s lead feet lend themselves to following orders out of fear of the unknown.

Into the prison, she walks.

* * *

“Oi, _fuck off_!” The sound of a calloused palm smacking down against an offending forearm startles Jianna in passing. Confrontations arise at all hours, at all times, and intervention is minimal. Petty fights aren’t worth stepping in for officers, not when the paycheque barely covers regular work, let alone workplace accidents.

She’s been shown to her cell – Cellblock C6 – and is, arguably, one of the younger inmates this side of 40. Most of the other women look well accustomed to prison life; they wear it on their faces, in weary glances and hard stances. Some bear tattoos. She wonders what they mean, but she’ll never ask.

The bed – or rather, a cot – looks as if it could collapse under too much weight. Still, she sits on its edge, tests her weight. The springs squeak. It’s well worn and uncomfortable, but it’s hers.

This is her home for the next two years.

It could have been worse, but two years feels like an eternity in a place like this.

She’d seen it on the jury’s face when they returned with her conviction. Two years or a fine that they knew full well she couldn’t afford. The final deliverance came with the gavel, escorted out of sight, out of mind. Not that there was anyone there for her anyway; it’s the same as it is now – utterly, alone.

The introductions are given at roll call after dinner. She shares a cellblock with seven other women, and it feels more crowded with them all stood before each of their cells. She’s stared at with predator eyes, sizing her up.

The tell-tale jingle of keys and heels announces the arrival of an officer – it’s Miss Ferguson again with her pressed uniform and short, black bob of hair that contrasts starkly against her pale skin, against the dim lighting of the hallways. She clears her throat, glances between the women. A list is procured from the clipboard in her hand.

“Brando.”  
“Here.”  
“George.”  
“Yep.”

The roll call proceeds quickly, all heads accounted for. She saves Jianna for last. 

“Riley?”

“Yeah, here.”

“Settling in, I see.”

“Yes, Miss Ferguson,” Jianna nods, lets her hands wring together behind her back, out of nerves. The act of kindness during the strip search may very well have been a one-off, but she hasn’t forgotten it. Ferguson however, gives a nod, signs off on the count.

“In your cells then. Let’s go.”

Soft murmurs and sighs fill the air as each woman turns around and into her cell for the night. It’s an apparent routine, built into the establishment with no complaint. Ferguson moves efficiently, following with her key, making sure each iron bar door is firmly closed before locking it with a swift turn of her wrist. The bolt of each heavy door echoes in the cellblock. There is no privacy here; hungry eyes linger in the dark.

Jianna steps in, watches as Miss Ferguson shuts her door, locks her in for the night. The tall woman lingers, puts her key back in the pocket of her blazer, and rises to her full height – nearly a full foot taller with the heels of her shoes.

“You’ll do well to… ignore what you might hear at night in here,” Ferguson states, merely in passing. Detached. She’s gone to lock the cell block, pulling the barred door across the aisle, sealing them in. Jianna leans against the door. The metal is cold to her palms as she watches the Deputy-Governor leave. 

* * *

The hours creep along into the night. The building itself echoes and creaks. Jianna swears she can hear something rattling in the pipes above, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

She isn’t the only new prisoner within the brick walls and iron bars; someone in the next block wails and wails into the night. It makes sleep elusive, and even when exhaustion weighs down over her, sleep is fitful. The mattress is too thin; she can feel the bed springs poking through the bottom of it. No matter which way she turns, it isn’t at all comfortable.

Jianna sighs, lays on her back, stares at the plain shadowy abyss of the ceiling.

Two years… it isn’t an entirely _unfair_ sentence. Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, she’s taken the blame, left behind bars while _he_ got off free. Jianna closes her eyes, attempts to roll over on her side and comes face to face with dusty red brick. It has to be near four in the morning now when things start to quiet down enough, at long last.

It’s almost peaceful, despite knowing there are several women beside and across from this cell, and hundreds more in the other blocks. The air feels thick but cool \- almost unsettling in a way.  

She’s half asleep when she hears it – faint, at first but rhythmic, one after the other. The sound draws nearer, and she recognises the sound of heels clicking down the hallway, one after the other. _Click, click… click, click…_

Even in the dim light, Jianna peers out from her bed cover, through the bars of her cell. The shadow jingles a key from hand to hand, but doesn’t open a single gate. It must be one of the guards on night shift, she figures. They can never rest without being watched.

The thought makes her anxious, a heavy feeling in the lowers of her gut. She lays back down again.

She tosses and turns, and doesn’t sleep.

Morning roll call begins, and she’s the first on her feet. 


	2. Pecking Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wish they would confirm a few of the details from the past - like why Joan's badge says 'officer' but has crowns on the shoulders of her uniform. I think I've seen Blackmoore used more than Blackmoor in the show/subtitles on DVD, but it's not consistent. Anyway, just to note: I'm keeping Joan as Deputy-Governor (mainly, as an officer fast tracked to that position in a short time) for plot reasons you'll see later on. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

“Breakfast at 7:30 sharp.” A quick cross off the list of names follows the barked order. This guard is the other woman who’d been in the strip search room. She looks as tired as Jianna feels in that moment. “This way.” She indicates gruffly as the other women are already on the move with shuffling feet in a semi-orderly fashion of plaid and denim. She falls in line at the back, keeps her head down.

She sees the way they look at her, but picking a fight won’t end well.

The smell of eggs is what hits her first. She’s too exhausted to feel hungry, but she takes a tray regardless. Food is slopped into the portions – scrambled eggs, two pieces of burnt bacon, and a stale bread roll.

One foot after the other, Jianna gets to the end of the line, takes a cup of orange juice, and looks up to the cafeteria.

Off-white tables secured to the floor are occupied by variations of yellow and denim, lucratively huddled together over breakfast. A few lift their heads, and stare – waiting to see where she goes, what _pack_ of wolves she’ll align herself with. A few hesitant steps carry her forward.

A single table at the far end has only two occupants, and so, she heads towards them

“ _Ooh, look at her go, eh_?”  
“ _She’ll be set straight.”  
“Yeah, sent back to where she fuckin’ came from!”_

The feeling in the back of her throat tightens as she walks. In part, she wants to turn and look, to put faces to harsh words that dig in behind her back. Getting in a confrontation only spells disaster – especially when alone. She focuses, instead, straight ahead, making eye contact with a male guard. Words are drowned out, turning into distant muffled sounds.

There’s one more row of tables to pass before the end. Another few steps and –

She trips.

Someone’s stuck out their foot, but instead of being able to catch herself, the very motion makes her feel utterly _sick_ and light-headed.

The tray clatters across the floor, spilling its contents. Her chin follows on the linoleum. Jarring pain resonates through her head, and the rambunctious hollering becomes quieter and quieter when she loses consciousness entirely.

* * *

“ _Mr. Hollins, tell me what happened_.”

“ _Riley was looking to get a table. Someone tripped her. Must’ve hit her head somethin’ hard off the floor.”_

Slowly, despite the ringing in her ears, Jianna comes to, still exhausted, still sore. Even in the medical wing, the lights are old and dim. Concrete walls seal them in; faded red curtains hide her from prying, predatory eyes passing by in the hallway.

Deputy-Governor Ferguson stands next to Officer Hollins. Concern nestles between her brow, with the lines in her face far more apparent.

“You’re awake.”

She blinks, and her face scrunches with the pain. Her head _aches_ all throughout her jaw to the back of her neck.

“Yeah,” Jianna musters a whisper. It’s about all she can bear when every single resonant echo against the walls causes pain. Even Ms. Ferguson’s voice, a soft-spoken tenor, sets it off.

“I heard you took quite a tumble in the cafeteria. You’re not concussed, luckily.”

At least, a small flicker of hope remains after the incident. Jianna lifts her head a little more. Still, she feels the dizziness in the motion, and she stops.

The click of Joan’s shoes is worse than nails raking against a chalkboard. Jianna grits her teeth, draws her breath through them as Joan approaches her bedside.

Her world has been turned on its head.

“I’m also aware that it was intentional. I’ll make sure the active officer is more… vigilant.”

“Oh,” This time, she forces herself to look up. Doe eyes that have been so wide with fear finally relax, if only slightly. “T-thank you, Miss Ferguson.”

“The first few weeks are tough, Riley. The women here can be… cruel if they want to be,” She’s seen it first hand, how vicious they can become, more so, when something of value is at stake.  

“They don’t even know me!” The first protest leaves the sacrificial lamb; she winces again, and wonders if they’ll give her something for the headache.

“I know,” Joan acknowledges. She shifts slightly, though her posture remains the same, rigid and distant. “Just… keep your head down, don’t let them get to you. It’s –”

“Miss Ferguson? A moment?” Another female voice cuts deep, sharp and shrill. It’s the doctor on staff, returning with printed paperwork. Joan turns on her heel, and doesn’t look at Jianna again.  

The pair leave the room; the door closes, and Jianna can see partly through the window that they’re so close together, it gives the appearance of whispering conspiratorially to one another.

The Deputy-Governor’s face suddenly becomes solemn; granite eyes look up and through the window, back at the inmate in question. Her hard stare is too focused, too intimidating to question.

Suddenly, she feels like she’s done something wrong.

* * *

Some time passes before the Deputy-Governor returns, bringing with her a tall, balding man. The stench of his cologne nearly makes Jianna retch.

He dons the uniform, but gold crowns lace his shoulders.

“Jianna Riley,” He says her name off the clipboard with an air of disdain as if this isn’t worth his time to be here. The doctor returns and stands with Governor and his Deputy, seeking the moment to speak. He sighs, and lets the doctor go ahead with a weak gesture of the hand.

“Jianna, I took a blood test on recommendation from the Deputy-Governor, after your fall. You reported feeling dizzy, and we wanted to make sure something else wasn’t wrong with you. The results came in, and um, you’re about one month pregnant.”

The bomb drops, and Jianna feels her heart stop, mid-beat.

Three screws stand like a panel of judges, serious and uniform, eager to await the response to her own damnation.

Suddenly, the pain at the back of her head is no longer the problem.

* * *

It makes sense, when she thinks about it.

Too high to recount ever using a condom or not, Jianna grimaces. Prison no longer serves as her only punishment for her wrong doings.

The fallout settles between the four people in the medical wing. She glances between Deputy and Governor, notices the way that Ferguson avoids making direct eye contact with either of them.

If there’d been any hope of this sentence being easy, it was left in the strip search room with her clothes and dignity.

“Do you know who the father is?” The Governor speaks firmly, breaks the silence after the drop. Jianna shakes her head, winces again with the pain it causes.

“No,” There’s no point in explaining his role in all this when she took the blame for his crime. Wrong place, wrong time. “No, I- I don’t.”

It isn’t an outright lie; she doesn’t even know his last name, where he was born, or where he’d even be now.

Disapproval forms on the Governor’s ruddy face, knit between the wrinkle in his brows, and the lines beside his mouth. This complicates matters. A prison is no place for a child.

The musty air suffocates. Jianna swallows thickly, a hand settling over her own stomach as a silent plea for mercy.

“Do you have any family you can contact?”

“No,” Another sigh; another failing. With a deadbeat father, and a mother who couldn’t care less of her daughter’s outcome after her prison sentence, she’s left with no siblings, no extended family, _nothing_. “I… I have no one on the outside, G-Governor.”

“I see.” His dismissal comes flatly. Decisions linger on his lips, but fall silent. “And I’m assuming you want to bloody well _keep_ it.”

“Governor,” The doctor steps in with a sharp look, voice firm despite its high-pitched intonation. “Riley’s just hit her head, sir. I’d recommend letting her process everything before trying to make decisions like this under pressure.”

“Fine. We’ll be talking about this soon.” With another curt dismissal, the Governor turns, gives a nod to Ferguson, and takes his leave.

Even with his dreadful presence now gone, it does little to settle Jianna’s thoughts, nor anxieties. She bites down on her lip, and finally, Ferguson looks at her. Not quite with pity, but she doesn’t share the same disappointment as her superior officer.

“What- what do I do now?” Panic rises to the back of her throat like bile, fearing she’ll spew without an answer.

“If you choose to have the baby,” Joan begins but falters; the outcome is not beneficial to a soon to be mother. “I can’t guarantee the Governor will allow it. But,” She clears her throat, watching as the doctor returns to counter, writing away on a form. “We’ll do what we can for you.”

It isn’t a guaranteed promise, but the calm reassurance is enough. Jianna smiles weakly at Joan. The weight of it all bears down on her chest, but for a moment, she can breathe without hindrance.

“Get some rest, Riley. You’ll be back in general after you’ve slept off the headache,” The doctor interrupts, and any semblance of a return smile from Ferguson’s face slips away from where it came as she turns away and leaves the medical wing without looking back. 


End file.
